


The Very Best

by Fiction_Over_Fact



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Elite Four!AU, Fluff, Getting Together, M/M, Mutual Pining, it's barely relevant but that's what it is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-29 13:54:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,575
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17204606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fiction_Over_Fact/pseuds/Fiction_Over_Fact
Summary: “What?”“There arememes,” Tobirama hissed with renewed energy. He looked back up to Madara, eyes glinting with offense and something almost deranged, expression vaguely reminiscent of Maggie the time Madara had accidentally sat on her. She’d nearly taken off the tip of his nose.Izuna wasn’t around to laugh at him this time but, somewhere in the back corners of his brain, Madara heard him cackle.“…what?” He asked again, because that seemed like the thing to do.





	The Very Best

**Author's Note:**

> _This_ is the Pokemon fic I once mentioned writing back in TPSA's notes! ...there still aren't very many Pokemon in it though, whoops.
> 
> So if you don't care about Pokemon it should still work as a modern age MadaTobi fic. You can think of Madara's Flareon as a particularly smart dog if you want, I guess?

Madara woke to a barrage of confusing sensations; namely that his mouth tasted of strawberries, his ass was cold and the toes on one of his feet were strangely hot and moist. It was a bit like the times he’d stood in front of the dishwasher while it ran, reaching for something in the cabinets.

He groaned, shifting his feet away from the unpleasant, sweaty feeling.

It growled.

Madara jolted, yanking his foot up from the floor— _why was he in the kitchen?_ -and leaning forward to see over his own knees and the edge of the counter. Immediately upon seeing the culprit he relaxed, letting his foot hang back down.

“Maggie, what the fuck?”

His Flareon, her tongue hanging out of her mouth suspiciously close to his foot, inched closer to him.

“That’s gross, stop it!” It wasn’t really a demand or an order—he wasn’t awake enough for those—but it was apparently enough like one to annoy Maggie.

She licked his foot again, glaring pointedly, and then bent down to the floor. The movement wasn’t nearly as awkward as it had been a few years ago, though her balance was still off with her missing leg. Maggie stood back up and reared up on her hind legs, balancing her paw on his knees and looking at him expectantly.

There was something shiny in her mouth, big enough that it stuck out either side of her muzzle. He stared down at her, confused. She hadn’t wanted to play fetch since she evolved so what—

Maggie growled again, butting her head into his leg, so he grabbed it, carefully not touching the part coated in hot Flareon drool.

He blinked at it and then looked back to his Pokemon. “Why did you have a spoon?”

She snorted and turned away from him, curling up on the tile by his feet, apparently already done with him for the day. Actually—

He glanced over at the microwave clock. The numbers, painfully bright blue, blinked helpfully at him: _7:13_.

Madara grunted and scrubbed a hand across his face. It was far, far too early for this shit, especially since he was on _vacation_. He scooted forward, intent on stumbling his way down the hall to his bed and its promise of warm sheets and soft pillows.

_Bliss_.

Instead, something tipped off his lap, hitting the floor with a plastic clatter and a small splash. He froze, clenching his teeth together and biting back the urge to scream his head off before the sun rose.

Touka’s apartment was above his and she would be very, very unimpressed. (More importantly, their combined screaming might wake Mito. Who would _slaughter_  them for waking her up early on her last Hashirama free day.)

Maggie yipped, claws clicking on the tile as she scampered away from whatever he had spilled. Madara hoped that nothing had gotten into her fur, though with the way the last few minutes had gone so far he couldn't really bring himself to believe it.

Madara sighed and stared up at the ceiling for a long moment, squinting to keep the light out of his eyes.

“I thought vacations were supposed to be enjoyable?”

Maggie didn’t reply. A faint slurping noise started up from the opposite corner of the kitchen, as she licked off whatever had spilled on her. He was definitely going to have to wash her. _Great._

Madara rolled his eyes and shook himself before forcing his head down to look at the floor. Ah, cereal. Some of that sugary crap Izuna liked too, which at least wasn’t much of a loss. Plus the clusters were coated in a delicate, pastel pink instead of their usual white, which explained why his mouth tasted so bad. _Strawberries_ , ugh.

Madara glared at the puddle, vaguely ashamed that his brother was the kind of person that bought limited-time holiday themed food. He would’ve bullied the idiot more when they were kids, had he known that _this_ was his reward for being a loving older brother.

Overpriced pink sugar.

It was probably for the best that he was going back to work tomorrow, he decided after a while.

He was apparently losing his mind with nothing to do but train and watch movies with his Flareon. He hadn’t sleep walked in _years—_ and never to the extent of getting out of bed and pouring himself a bowl of food he hated.

And, much as he hated to admit it, he was _bored_.

When Hashirama had announced that he and Izuna were going on a press tour to celebrate the first anniversary of the newly established Pokemon League in Fire Country, Madara had immediately had two reactions.

The first was indignation.

Hashirama was taking Izuna instead of him? _He_ was the one who'd helped the idiot get it established. They’d achieved peace between their kinsmen then went around the country convincing clans, villages and even civilian cities to host gyms. If he hadn’t backed Hashirama with the support of the Uchiha clan the Daimyo never would have agreed to permit and fund them.

The second was relief.

Press tours were _the worst_. Everywhere they went there were hundreds if not thousands of strangers screaming for them, dozens of hands reaching out to shake his and always a few that decided to grab his hair or, occasionally, his ass.

Worse even than the fact that people kept _touching him_ , was that he wasn’t allowed to do anything about it.

Last time a woman had pounced on him— _ripped open his fucking favorite shirt_ and _bit him on the fucking neck!_ —he’d thrown her off and yelled at her. She'd landed badly, ended up with a sprained wrist and a broken finger. Light injuries, he'd decided at the time, considering who she had attacked.

The media though, they hadn’t stopped talking about his ‘anger issues’ and ‘violent tendencies’ for _months,_ which was beyond ridiculous as far as Madara was concerned. Ninja were less common these days, sure, but it was like they’d forgotten he was a professional mercenary. One with a time-consuming day job now, but _still_.

She was lucky to be _alive_.

Madara heaved out a sigh and, since he was already up there anyway, let himself lay back across the bar. His back would hate him later but, until then, he was just glad to be horizontal again.

He’d wanted peace—that had been his dream ever since he was a child, even before he’d met Hashirama and realized it might be possible. And he’d known that it was important for ninja society to integrate more into civilian society—the way they’d held themselves mostly separate for so long wasn’t doing them any favors.

He didn’t regret it. It was just…there was a difference between _wanting_ and _having_.

Having was the reality he woke up to everyday, with all its attached consequences.

Wanting was idealized—there were no screaming civilian women touching his ass or, really, anyone touching his ass at all.

Well. Maybe _one_ person.

Still, the divide between the two remained.

He was half considering getting up and just throwing a towel over the puddle before he headed back to bed when something _slammed_ into the front door with enough force to rattle it in its frame.

Madara rolled up into a crouch on the counter top, grabbing a knife from the block by the microwave. He stared at the door, thoughts racing.

Somewhere on the floor, Maggie growled. The sound, loud and low, would have been more at home in a Pyroar or an Arcanine than her small body.

He had kunai stashed throughout the apartment, he wasn’t an _idiot_ , but only a few swords. His gunbai was back in his room ( _ten steps out of the kitchen, twelve down the hall, eight to his bedside)_ so he could strap his armor on and take it with him every morning before work. The seals around the tower and Konohagakure, as well as its isolated position in a volcano’s caldera, made the possibility of invasion minimal.

Still, if someone was stupid or strong enough they’d try anything.

_And_ , the part of him that had never been able to believe that his life turned out the way it had whispered, _there’s always the chance that some Senju decided they didn’t want peace anymore_.

He tightened his grip on the knife, Sharingan whirling.

Hashirama would forgive him for protecting himself if he was attacked, he knew. And the Senju would follow him, as clan head, as Hokage, as husband of the League’s Champion.

Tobirama’s opinion was harder to anticipate though and, regrettably, he cared what the man thought about him a great deal these days.

There was another knock at the door, quieter this time, and then: “Uchiha, stop panicking and let me in before I break this down.”

Madara blinked and stared for a second, not having expected the very man he’d just thought of to be the one outside his door. It was a relief as much as it wasn’t—Tobirama being the one banging on his door meant the man couldn’t get pissed off if Madara got into a fight with some Senju. It also meant Tobirama was apparently  _already_ pissed off at Madara. They hadn't even spoken recently!

“Uchiha, you heard me,” came another growl, even more irritated.

Madara frowned and hesitated for another moment before slipping the knife back into the block and crossing the room to open the door. If Tobirama _did_ try to kill him he could survive unarmed for long enough to reach his actual weapons.

…Probably. If not he would deserve to die for being stupid enough to underestimate Senju Tobirama.

The lock clicked open just before his hand touched the doorknob.

He froze. That had certainly been Tobirama’s voice and it'd felt like his chakra signature, but it _was_ possible for both of those things to be emulated--

The door swung open and he stepped back to avoid a broken nose, revealing Tobirama scowling on his welcome mat. It looked enough like the real thing, at least.

“Finally,” the man grumbled, obviously unimpressed with the wait. Madara felt hair raise on the back of his neck and he glared back, disbelieving.

_He_ was the one who got to be justifiably angry about being disturbed. _Not_ the asshole who’d demanded entry to his apartment despite apparently not even needing him to unlock the door. Speaking of which, actually—

“How the hell did you get in?” Madara looked him over. The mesh armor and short over shirt Tobirama had taken to wearing over the past year suited him well but didn’t seem to be concealing any lock-picking tools.

Which, Madara would like to make it clear, was the only reason he’d been looking.

Tobirama flashed a small plastic rectangle at him but tucked it back away before Madara could get a good look at it.

“Anija gave me access to most of the tower with my key card,” Tobirama explained, like just having it was a good enough reason to _use_ it to enter Madara's private quarters.

For him, it probably was.

Their adaptation to newer civilian technology, Madara reflected, had caused many unpleasant side effects. Mostly via Tobirama upon _him_.

“And why the fuck didn’t you just open it yourself then?” He growled out, stepping aside to let the man into his apartment. Tobirama shrugged, toeing his shoes off on the mat.

“I wasn’t going to but you took too long to respond.”

Madara shut the door a bit harder than he’d intended. “I was coming!”

Tobirama didn’t bother looking back at him to respond, just continued into the living room area. “You were _slow_.”

Madara rolled his eyes, following him further into the apartment. “You were knocking on my door at _7 AM_ during my _vacation_ ,” he pointed out. "I can be as slow as I damn well please."

Tobirama settled onto the couch, apathetic to Madara's judgement. His guest's lack of manners aside, he was grateful that he’d cleaned up the remains of last night’s movie marathon before going to bed. Popcorn was fantastic for eating but made for an unimpressive interior decoration piece when scattered across the couch and floor.

However, for once, Tobirama didn’t seem particularly invested in making snide comments about the state of Madara’s apartment.

Instead, he stared at Madara for a few seconds, saying nothing. He didn’t need to—that expression on his face had always reminded Madara of a spoiled cat, all “ _I am above your puny mortal concerns_.” After a few impossibly long moments his eyes trailed down Madara in some strange, mute assessment.

Madara resisted the urge to fidget, all at once extremely aware that he was wearing Zigzagoon pajama pants in front of an attractive man with a razor blade for a tongue.

“Well good fucking morning to you too,” he grumbled, after a handful of seconds had passed with no explanation.

Tobirama, apparently having made some kind of decision, leaned forward and propped his elbows up on his knees, tilting his forehead into one of his hands and drawing a deep breath. He sat silently for a long moment, enough so that Madara took his own seat on the other half of the couch, pushing some of Hashirama’s incessantly gifted throw pillows out of the way.

Eventually, Tobirama sighed, his whole body slumping into the gesture.

“You didn’t watch TV last night.” He said, after a while longer. He sounded even more tired than Madara felt and there was something...heavy about him. Worn. “Or the news this morning.”

Despite their content, the sentences were not questions.

Madara blinked, taken off guard. Why would Tobirama care about that?

“No?” He answered, unsure if he was supposed to. Tobirama wasn’t a particularly normal person at the best of times, but that was strange even by his standards.

Said man lifted his head out of his hand to stare at Madara with an almost uncomfortable degree of intensity. There was a wild look in his eyes that Madara wasn’t sure about. It did things to his heart and stomach, different from the kind Tobirama looking him usually caused.

When Tobirama finally spoke his voice came out oddly flat. “Last night was the final event in Hashirama and Izuna’s press tour.”

He’d said that like it had some sort of significance, but Madara had no clue what that might be.

“And?” He prompted, crossing his arms and raising an eyebrow. Tobirama always hated it when he did that. “You can start making sense anytime now.”

Tobirama glowered like Madara missing the point was causing him physical pain. It was a familiar expression and, with the strange mood Tobirama had been in so far, a bit of a relief to see again.

It didn’t last because all at once the facts of the situation _clicked_ in his brain and possibility hit Madara like a sledgehammer to the chest, setting his heart racing.

Tobirama looked unusually frazzled.

Hashirama and Izuna were out in public. _Alone_.

He’d just been asked if he’d watched TV recently.

“Are they in jail again?” Madara demanded, incredulous. Their brothers were fucking idiots and sure, it had only happened two times _but that was still two more fucking times than_ _ **he**_ _had been arrested,_ _Izuna!_

Their status as citizens of Konoha meant that laws in the rest of Fire Country applied differently to them, but the possible diplomatic consequences could be...large (and that was ignoring the fuss the media would make about it.) It might be easier to just let them stay, really. He could always make a new best friend—it’d be easy enough to do better than Hashirama.

Next time he’d go for a less emotional one that didn't cry on him whenever they watched a movie together.

Admittedly, it would be harder to replace a brother, but Hikaku was a relatively close blood relation and a good 70% less annoying than Izuna.

...Actually, Hashirama being gone would mean that they'd need another Hokage. Since Izuna would be out of the running as well, Tobirama would be his only real competition, with Mito already busy as the League Champion and Touka not quite the large scale, battlefield destroying kind of ninja a Kage was expected to be.

The thought cheered Madara up a bit, though another look at Tobirama dampened his joy.

Tobirama’s reaction to his realization was strange—parts of him visibly relaxed, his jaw unclenching and the furrow in his brows smoothing out, but his posture stiffened, spine straightening up from its slump and shoulders going back. Despite the mixed signals of his body language, he rolled his eyes. “No, though _I_ might be when they get home.”

Madara looked at him, suspicious.

A feeling of great foreboding began to build within him. Izuna and Hashirama brought out the worst in each other—Izuna was less temperamental than Madara but his light-hearted carelessness had gotten him into more trouble than Madara’s temper ever had. Combined with Hashirama being… _Hashirama_.

Well.

Madara shivered.

“What the fuck did they _do_ then?” He asked, because there had to be _something_. There was _always_ something.

Hashirama and Izuna were incapable of _not_ doing something, no matter how desperately they were asked or imposingly they were threatened.

“It was mostly my idiot this time,” Tobirama admitted, with obvious reluctance and an even more weary sigh. Madara was concerned about him for half a second—Tobirama was not the kind of man who _resigned_ himself to things—before Tobirama’s expression went back to its usual glare. “But _yours_ certainly didn’t help.”

That face shouldn’t have been reassuring but Madara’s stupid heart didn’t care about things like _logic_ and _common sense_. Arguably, the rest of Madara didn’t normally care about those things either.

Still, that sounded a bit too much like an accusation for Madara’s taste and he huffed, crossing his arms. No matter how complicated his feelings for Tobirama had grown in the past year, the man still annoyed him like no one else.

“Your idiot brother can make a mess all by himself, Senju! You don’t need to blame me for it.”

“Oh, really? Do you know what our brothers had scheduled last night?” Tobirama asked, eyes narrowing ominously.

Madara’s own brow furrowed a bit. He didn’t. He knew that they’d finished the last of their scheduled events yesterday evening. Today they’d planned to sight see for a while before leaving Tanzaku-Gai--Hashirama had pestered him about what kind of souvenir he wanted for  _hours--_ but that...was...it. Wait.

_Oh no_.

Tanzaku-Gai was a big coastal city on damn near the other end of Fire Country. There were plenty of civilian film and news studios in it, as well as an impressive contest hall, the Fire Country regional stadium and one of their League Gyms.

Hashirama and Izuna had actually visited most of those during their time there—all of them as part of the news special Madara _had_ watched yesterday morning. Hashirama had spilled flour all over himself during the cooking segment, charming despite his clumsiness, and Izuna had looked ridiculous in the powder blue, frilled contest tux he’d been forced into when they'd toured the hall.

Touka had nearly choked on her chips when he'd come out of the dressing room in it and Madara hadn’t fared much better. Overall, it had been a good time and made for decent publicity for the League.

However, there was one other kind of broadcast entertainment well represented in Tanzaku-Gai and _that_ was late night talk shows.

Madara swallowed and forced out the question he really, _really_ didn’t want the answer to.

“Which one?”

Toirama snorted and deflated, head returning to his hands and looking like the life had drained out of him. “It doesn’t matter _which one_ , Uchiha. It matters that our brothers made us look like complete fools to _millions of people_.”

Madara stiffened, suddenly understanding Tobirama’s earlier blankness. “Just tell me what the fucking _did_ , Senju!”

Tobirama didn’t do anything as helpful as give him a direct answer, of course. “Well, really Hashirama made _you_ look like a fool and then Izuna dragged me down with you.”

“Seriously Senju, what the fuck did-” He demanded, but Tobirama interrupted before he could finish.

“Do you actually have 'slumber parties' with Hashirama when he thinks you’ve been pining over me too much?” The question was technically, accounting for the angle of Tobirama’s head, directed at the coffee table.

It still made Madara’s stomach drop to the floor.

Once, shortly before their clans had signed peace treaties, Hashirama had thrown him through several trees. Headfirst. The next few days he’d wandered around the compound, feeling like he was drunk and steering his body with chakra strings.

This felt a lot like that experience.

Maybe he was asleep or hallucinating, maybe he’d hit his head at some point in the last week and he was in a coma because this could _not_ be happening.

“ _What_?”

“There are _memes_ ,” Tobirama hissed with renewed energy. He looked back up to Madara, eyes glinting with offense and something almost deranged, expression vaguely reminiscent of Maggie the time Madara had accidentally sat on her. She’d nearly taken off the tip of his nose.

Izuna wasn’t around to laugh at him this time but, somewhere in the back corners of his brain, Madara heard him cackle.

“…what?” He asked again, because that seemed like the thing to do.

Tobirama, apparently, did not agree. “Why did you confide in _Hashirama_? You know he can’t keep a secret when he’s drunk!”

Madara swallowed, his throat clicking loudly.

“Confide in Hashirama about what?” He asked, afraid that he knew the answer.

Normally, he and Tobirama were about the same height, the Senju being barely taller than him (though Madara’s hair more than made up the difference). Now, with his head nearly bent to his knees, Tobirama’s face was elevated lower than his.

That didn’t stop the man from looking down his nose and sneering at Madara. “That you _liked_ me, you idiot!”

An invisible force punched Madara in the stomach—either pure shock or Tobirama’s Gengar—and made him sputter.

“ _W-what_ —” he started to say, but Tobirama interrupted, his earlier dour mood completely exchanged for annoyance.

“Don’t bother denying it, I know you do,” He snapped, something soft in his eyes despite the sharpness of his tone. It faded before Madara could get a better look at it, Tobirama's sneer deepening as he rolled his eyes. “Me and the entire _fucking country_.”

He glared at Madara again, eye narrowed to ominously thin red slits. It was the sort of expression that had sent many a jounin running from his office. “This is _your fault_.”

Madara, who’d lived most of his life around someone that could _actually_ kill him with their eyes (and was physically incapable of backing down from a fight no matter how weak his knees felt), huffed. “Why the fuck are you blaming _me_? I don’t even know what happened!”

Tobirama scoffed and shook his head, muttering something under his breath. He spoke again before Madara could question him about it.

“They were on Late Night Gai,” he started, and Madara blanched, falling back into the couch cushions, vaguely hopeful that they might swallow him.

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he hissed, squinting up at the ceiling.

Tobirama remained unsympathetic, because he was an asshole. “Oh fuck indeed,” he agreed, before continuing on at an exaggeratedly slow drawl, _because he was an asshole_.

“Gai had them spin the _wheel_ ,” Tobirama emphasized the word, obviously unwilling to say the flowery, over-the-top name Maito Gai had given the thing. “Hashirama landed on drinking games— _five times in a row_.”

Tobirama sounded pained at the remembrance, and Madara resolved to not look at the internet for at least a week. Maybe more.

“As the closing game for the show, they played a lightning round of Truth or Dare. Apparently, the fact that you and Hashirama watch rom-coms and eat ice cream when you’re feeling emotional is his most ‘youthful tradition with a friend.’” He said the last words with obvious distaste. “I’m sure you’re touched.”

Madara groaned.

“And that made Izuna mention that he thinks I’ve been 'sending you longing looks'—since he’s just as much of an over dramatic fool as you are and thinks he's romantic besides—“

“Have you?”

Tobirama stopped mid-sentence, looking at Madara with wide eyes, cheeks flushed from his rant. He stared for a moment before Madara realized that _he_ was the one who’d said that.

He swallowed, pushing himself to sit up on the couch and look at Tobirama directly. “Have you?”

Tobirama’s mouth opened but no sound came out. He blinked once, very slowly, like he couldn’t quite believe Madara had asked him that.

It took him a moment to gather his composure but once he did he frowned. “It _doesn’t matter_ if I have or not,” he said, which was close enough to a confirmation that Madara felt a smile spread across his own face.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed, and he pointed at Madara, obviously unhappy with his reaction. “ _No_ , Uchiha. We have a situation to deal with first, we can talk about this later—“

Madara, who had never listened to anyone and wasn’t going to start now, edged closer to him on the couch, grabbing his wrist. His arm was surprisingly warm. Madara had always looked at Tobirama, with his white hair and pale skin, and thought he would be cold.

It was nice to be wrong, to _know_ the truth instead of being forced to assume.

“ _I_ am exhausted. You _look_ exhausted.” He pushed on Tobirama’s chest and after a couple seconds the man relented to the force, laying back on the couch and looking up at Madara, blank expression revealing none of his thoughts.

That face would have made Madara let him go and drop the subject, but he could feel the man’s heart thundering in his chest.

There was no way he was alone in this mess.

“We are going to take a fucking nap.” Madara eased himself down across the cushions next to him, grinning when Tobirama turned onto his side to make room, gratifyingly compliant. 

“And later we are going to _talk_ about this?” Tobirama asked, his breath brushing against the back of Madara’s neck. It was almost enough to make him shiver. Madara scrunched his nose up, but nodded.

Tobirama sort of...thawed behind him, tension bleeding out of his muscles, like he’d genuinely thought Madara was going to reject him while spooning on the couch.

It was tempting to point that out—to pluck at Tobirama’s nerves the way he always did—but he _was_ tired. Plus, it was starting to look like he’d get to regularly argue with Tobirama for a while, possibly the rest of his life. That idea made the impulse less urgent and it faded under the pleasant fuzziness of warmth and the vaguely minty smell that always clung to Tobirama.

Said man pressed his face into the hair just behind Madara's ear and spoke quietly. “Izuna and Hashirama are flying back in at 6, right?”

He grunted an affirmative, curling an arm underneath his head and settling in for what seemed like a very promising nap, if Tobirama would just shut up.

“Would you rather hold them down or shave their heads?”

Madara laughed so hard he nearly rolled off the couch.

**Author's Note:**

> The beginning of this fic was rewritten about 8ish times, and two of those moonlighted as IzuTobi instead because ~I hate making decisions~
> 
> Kudos and comments are appreciated!<3 (+ feel free to let me know if you see any typos)


End file.
